Necessary Transgression
by Valerina
Summary: CD May Challenge; Vaughn finds himself needing something he cannot have, so he makes do with a substitute.


TITLE: Necessary Transgression  
  
AUTHOR: Valerina  
  
FEEDBACK:  Yes please!  Loved it, hated it, let me know.   Valerina719@hotmail.com  
  
CLASSIFICATION: Angst, Vignette  
  
SUMMARY:  CD May Challenge; Vaughn finds himself needing something he cannot have, so he makes do with a substitute.  
  
DISCLAIMER: JJ, sweet JJ...I'm sad to say that "Alias" is not mine.  If I had to say whose it was I would go with JJ Abrams, "Bad Robot," and ABC.  But that's just a guess :)   
  
DISTRIBUTION:  Credit Dauphine always.  Anyone else, please feel free but let me know so I can come visit it!  
  
RATED: PG-13  
  
  
  
[vaughn]  
  
The date and time are irrelevant. It could have been yesterday, it could be tomorrow.  
  
He sits and stares and wonders how much longer this can go on. Spending the day worrying about Her is a habit he cannot [will not] break. The desk is beginning to bruise from his fingers' constant drumming; the clock is becoming self-conscious from his repeated glances. A single phone call will end this anguish.  
  
Seconds, minutes, hours later it rings. She is fine. They will meet. Another futile exercise to remind him what can never [will never] be. It's a punishment he savors with a masochistic gusto that gets him through the long day.  
  
He pushes papers around on his desk to waste the time; on his way out he wishes his secretary a happy birthday and declines her invitation to join the celebration downtown, for he has a date with pain and he does not want to be late.  
  
The warehouse is cold and empty, devoid of any life or energy. He is there early as always, unable to stand the anticipation. Pacing, always pacing, always waiting.  
  
And then She is there, and the temperature rises inexplicably as the dank concrete walls seem to brighten and he almost forgets that they are hiding from the world in an abandoned warehouse.  
  
They talk. She has just returned from London or Paris or Memphis—it rarely makes a difference. Some of Her bruises he can see and others he knows are hidden far from his eyes.  
  
The air between them tightens and crinkles as he asks, She answers, he jokes, She smiles. When She's not looking his eyes rake over Her body, Her face—wanting to see inside Her, wanting to be so inside Her that he forgets who he is. Instead he is stopped at Her skin and sees for the first time the splint on Her left pinky finger.  
  
Casually his questions are brushed aside, Her broken finger simply another casualty of the job. He dies a little more inside as he sees Her bury yet another bad memory beneath Her smile.  
  
Without thinking his hand closes over Her broken pieces as if he can heal Her with sheer will. Their eyes meet and there is a tug, a crackle in the atmosphere, an electric spark in the air. The tension has finally become tangible—it screams for a sweet release, and yet he steps back.  
  
He turned from Her, his mind realizing what his body could not. He turned, but not before Her sad eyes pierced his soul. She recovered quickly, Her mind catching up to his, and they parted company swiftly, neither one wishing to prolong the hurt.  
  
He called a friend on the way to the pool hall, wanting someone to keep him sane, keep him from doing something he would regret. Eric heard the call and met him there, knowing instinctively that it was Her who had prompted the late night drink.  
  
They played too much pool, they drank too much beer; CIA agents on the prowl. Eric spent most of the night pointing out pretty blond women to him but it was a brunette who caught his eye. Seated at the bar she made an impressive figure—her tight dress clinging to all the right places, eyes so dark brown he didn't think he would be able to see his reflection in them.  
  
He felt that this would become exceedingly important as the night wore on.  
  
This girl was close. Right build, right coloring…she was damn close. But it wasn't Her. And so he went right up to her and bought her a beer.  
  
Seconds, minutes, hours later—it didn't matter—they were at his house. In the dim light she was still so close to Her. With the lights off it could have *been* Her. Stumbling toward the bed, shirts, pants, dresses off. Falling down, down, down to the bed.  
  
Time passes as his hands move through her hair, all over her lean body, his eyes closed even in the dark. It was easier to pretend that way.  
  
His mind intermingled past with present, Her with her. Finally his body found release, he dropped down on top of her, his nose buried in her hair, wishing for all the world that it smelled like he knew Hers did.  
  
It was wrong, it was twisted, it was necessary. It was the closest he could [should] get to Her, and this girl was pretty damn close.  
  
The next morning, next week, next month she wakes up with a one-track mind bent on leaving, her face contorted into a mixture of pity and disgust.  
  
"It was fun, Mike, but I think it's about time I get going."  
  
He stares at her, the curiosity blatantly displayed on his face. He wonders why it didn't work this time and asks her.  
  
"You called me by another name last night, Mike. A girl just can't keep her dignity after that."  
  
He forces an expression of sadness to come across his face, but she doesn't buy it. It only makes her more determined to get out.  
  
"Whoever she is, Mike, you'll get her one day. If you're thinking about her while in bed with me there's got to be something. And that's the truth." She smiles in defeat, hoping to at least tell him that she understands, that she's been there too.  
  
He cannot help but smile sadly at her words. He knows the truth, is quite familiar with the truth. He knows that "one day" will most likely never come.  
  
Seeing his expression she misinterprets it as the look of the bad boy who has realized he's lost his shot at the princess forever.  
  
"Sorry if she won't take you back, buddy, but the fact is is that she's still on your mind. Sometimes, the truth hurts." She shrugs in apology, grabs her stuff and is gone.  
  
He sits on the bed, watching her retreating figure. He sighs, truly sad to see her go. After all, she was pretty damn close.  
  
end.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
Hey everybody—sorry for anyone who's waiting for Ch 6 of First Impressions, but I'm completely blocked at the moment. Maybe this little ficlet will do me some good :) Speaking of this one, what do you think? I've got an idea for Sydney's side of the coin if anyone's interested… By the way, if you read this you are totally obligated to hit that little review button or email me. 


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